Song of the Nightingales
by ghostwritten2
Summary: Sequel to The Diary of Christine Daae. Erik returns to Paris to find a shock waiting for him. High melodrama quotient. IN PROGRESS.
1. Nightbirds

Ch 1 – Nightbirds

"My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense…"

John Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale_

_Dark._

_It always seems to be dark here, _she thought.

_Angel – Erik – my love – I know you can't hear me, but I'm sorry. I tried._ A tear slipped down the girl's pale cheek.

The doctor shut the door quietly behind him.

"How is she?" Raoul asked anxiously. "Is there any change?"

A sorrowful shake of the head was the answer.

"Thank you…" Raoul's shoulders slumped.

The doctor patted him gently on the back. "I can see myself out."

Raoul nodded, then gently turned the knob of the bedroom door.

"Christine?" he called gently.

As always, he received no response. The room was dark. The heavy drapes shut out every ray of sunlight ,even in the daytime. No candle shone in the gloom. Christine had been unable to bear the smallest bit of light at first.

She lay, her luxuriant dark hair spread out on the white pillow, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on the bedclothes.

_So beautiful_, thought Raoul. _Come back to me, Christine. Please come back to me._

He walked over to her, his steps muffled by the thick carpet, and sat in the chair beside the bed. He gently brushed back a lock of her hair and touched his fingers to the back of one of her hands. As always, she was completely unresponsive. She might have been carved from marble, so pale and still did she appear. Raoul touched one of her cheeks, softly. Was that a tear?

_Where are you?_ Christine thought. _I'm so lost. Come find me, Erik, please come find me…_

He was glad to be back. He'd thought of nothing but her during the entire time he'd been away. God, he wished he hadn't had to make the trip. What if she had changed her mind? What if she no longer cared?

As soon as he had reached the city limits, the cloaked man had removed a jeweled ring from the chain around his neck, where it had resided ever since he had left Paris. He wrapped it in a small piece of white paper, summoned a messenger, and gave him the address that he himself had been given.

With that taken care of, the man in the cloak easily slipped through the shadows until he reached his hidden destination. He was adept at moving quickly and silently, without being seen.

Once inside and secure, Erik threw back his hood, revealing his mask. He lit a fire and stretched out in an armchair. He'd been unable to shake the habit of living underground. But if she wanted him – if there was still the slightest chance – he'd live anywhere. He'd live on the surface of the sun itself, if she asked it.

The business in Algiers had taken longer than he had expected, yet she had still occupied his thoughts both day and night. He'd never have left had it not been a matter of life and death – and something he was peculiarly suited to do – and had he not given his word. He had wanted to prove something to himself, to atone somehow for the past, but all he had felt was empty without her. At least the job was now done.

Dealing with people again had been a part of the business he'd much rather have done without. People were still the same: even when you were saving their lives, they shrank from you and shunned you, calling you a freak.

With the single exception of _her_. She was always the exception: the light in his darkness, the single bastion of hope between himself and the black abyss of madness that had once threatened him.

And, God. He ached with missing her. Especially now that he knew what it felt like to run his hands over every inch of her smooth, creamy skin…he still could not believe he had been fortunate enough to be granted such a boon.

He stood up to clear his thoughts.

Knowing in advance that he had had to go, he never should have – they never should have – but they had been like a force of nature. He wasn't sure either of them could have stopped.

_Please_, he thought. _Let her reply soon. Please, let her want to see me. Please don't let everything have been a dream…_

Erik paced his living space restlessly, too impatient to wait for a reply. Finally, although the hour was late and he was tired from the journey, he threw his traveling cloak back on. He could not stand being in the same city where she was without knowing where she was or whether she wanted to see him.

He made his way to the Girys', through the maze of narrow streets. They must be in touch with her. If anyone would know where she was, they would. Perhaps she had mentioned him…

He had expected to be besieged with questions, but Meg received him quietly and solemnly, showing surprise neither about the lateness of the hour nor about his sudden reappearance.

Meg's expression was one of concern. She greeted him courteously and then handed him a small card.

"This came for you about a month ago," she said.

Erik turned the card over. It was in Christine's handwriting.

_Raoul thinks I am mad._

_Please come._

_C. _


	2. Dark Wings

Ch 2 – Dark Wings 

"For Love is in young folk but rage…"

Geoffrey Chaucer, _The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_

"Christine – is with the Viscomte?" Erik snarled.

"She is." Meg backed away nervously. She had never seen him in a rage before, though she had heard of his temper from her mother.

"How did this happen?" His eyes had narrowed to green slits. They seemed to emit sparks, so intense was his fury.

"Please sit down. I will tell you all I know." She wished her mother would hurry and get home. She had no wish to further antagonize their unexpected guest.

Erik sat, glowering impatiently.

Meg was disconcerted and upset. "It was I who told her the way to enter the Opera House!" she burst out, "Though the desire to do so was hers. If I have done wrong, I am sorry!"

"No." Erik made a visible effort to calm himself. "It is I who should apologize. You have done no wrong. Believe me," this last was said with such sincerity that Meg took heart, and took a breath.

"Well…when she came back to us from that adventure, she seemed changed."

"Changed how?"

"Calmer, happier. As if she had been relieved of a burden, or as if something had been set right in her mind."

_ She was not alone in that_, Erik thought.

Meg continued. "We had been receiving letters daily – one by each post – from the Viscomte during her absence. He had wished for her to write to him daily, and when she did not, he became concerned."

"What did you tell him?"

"Merely that Christine was thinking and reflecting, and that she wished for some time in which to compose her thoughts. I think this worried him."

Erik snorted. He should perhaps feel some compassion for the Viscomte, but it was hard to bring himself to do so.

"Once she did return, she wrote to him directly, but I believe that the reply was not all he had been hoping for. He came to Paris immediately."

Meg paused, not wishing to speak of that which she did not know, but not wishing to give an inaccurate impression.

"I _believe_, though I do not know for certain, that Christine intended to break off her engagement. She never said so directly – I think that she thought it was proper for her to inform the Viscomte first – but both Maman and I had that clear impression."

"Yet she left with him?"

Meg sighed. This was the difficult part of the tale, and she knew Erik would not like it.

"Christine had insisted that the Viscomte should come to see her rather than sending a carriage to fetch her, as he had wanted. When he arrived, she had no plans to leave with him. He was polite, as always, yet seemed distracted. Maman offered them the use of our parlor in privacy, and though our home is so humble, he accepted.

There were words, apparently."

"What happened? What did they say to one another?"

Meg flushed, "I am not in the habit of listening at doors!"

Erik sat back. He knew that he would not have had such scruples, but he did not press her further.

"We do not know what went on – the doors were closed – but their voices were slightly raised, and they did not sound happy. Then the Viscomte opened the doors suddenly, calling for help.

_"What did he do to her?"_ Erik was on his feet again, shaking with rage.

"Nothing, I assure you! He was calling for assistance. Christine was having trouble breathing."

Meg swallowed, hard. "Maman and I ran in. Her color was not good; she was very pale. Suddenly her eyes closed, and she collapsed on the carpet. The Viscomte picked her up and bore her to the sofa. He began chafing her hands."

Erik made a strangled sound. The idea of that boy touching her – putting his hands on Christine, touching her flesh with his - no matter the reason – caused him torment.

Meg hurriedly went on. "Maman wanted to get her some water and smelling salts, and to loosen her stays, but the Viscomte would not allow it. When she did not wake immediately, he insisted on bundling her into his carriage."

"You let him take her? You stood by and let him do it?"

"We had little choice, Erik," a voice said calmly. Madame Giry had returned. She entered the room from the hall, removing her coat.

"Madame Giry." Erik composed himself enough to execute a brief nod of the head, serving for a bow. Meg looked relieved.

Madame Giry took up the tale "I told the Viscomte that it was no more than a faint. Christine had been agitated and unable to eat that day. The room was close, and the conversation had evidently caused her some unpleasant excitement. All she needed was some breathing room and some _sal volatile_, but he was in a panic for her and would not listen. He insisted on taking her to his own doctor."

"How could you let him do it?"

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "You think the Viscomte de Chagny now accepts commands from a dancing mistress?"

Erik sat down, wearily. "No. Of course not. My apologies. Where did he take her?"

"I assume, to his estate. I do not know for certain. We sent letters, Meg and I, but they were not answered. We heard nothing from her until a card arrived for you – and I see Meg has given it to you." She nodded at the crumpled piece of stiff paper that Erik was gripping tightly in one black-gloved hand.

He stood. "Madame, Mademoiselle, I thank you both for your hospitality and for your forbearance. I apologize for intruding on your evening."

Madame Giry went to show him out.

"Erik – please – be careful. For your sake and for Christine's. Think well before you act." The last was said in a tone of kindness, rather than warning. "And – safe journey." She knew he meant to go to her. The two of them were like a pair of magnets, pulled together by some invisible force, time and time again.

Erik gave a brief nod of the head and walked out, vanishing into the darkness.

Madame Giry closed the door. Meg was at her shoulder.

"Maman – is he going to kill the Viscomte?"

"I think not. Let us hope it does not come to that," Madame Giry said, gently.

* * *

Raoul sat at the writing desk in his library, his head in his hands. The oil lamp at his elbow made a pool of light around him, the only illumination in an otherwise dark room.

_Christine, forgive me_, he thought. _I meant it for the best – I swear I did._

He lowered his face to his arms.

The Viscomte de Chagny wept.

* * *

Christine wandered further into the strange darkness that surrounded her. Everything seemed so unfamiliar; even thoughts were increasingly hard to catch hold of.

She had been seeking something – she remembered that. No: someone. She had been looking for someone very important to her – someone she loved.

But who?


	3. Storm Clouds

Ch 3 – Storm Clouds 

A nightingale dies for shame if another bird sings better.  
Robert Burton, _Anatomy of Melancholy_

The new day dawned bright and clear, but day and night had become indistinguishable for Christine. Still, her thoughts seemed somehow clearer, though still confused.

_I was looking for Erik_, she thought. _How could I have forgotten?_

_But wasn't there a ring, too – a ring Raoul had wanted?_

_And the Angel of music has left me_, she thought sadly. _Or was it I who left him? There is never any music here, only the silent, endless dark._

_I miss music._

_And, oh, God, I remember something else…_

One of her hands moved infinitesimally on the coverlet.

The man watching her from the doorway saw the movement, and was displeased. Damn it. He'd forgotten to dose her today. He slipped away to search for the hidden bottle.

* * *

Raoul walked in the gardens listlessly, after a largely sleepless night. Day and night had become as alike to him as they were to Christine, but while she was struggling to regain her consciousness, he was having trouble abandoning his, even for the space of a night.

The gardens were lovely. Raoul had always been fond of flowers – his mother loved them. Lately he had begun to find the sight of roses peculiarly distasteful – especially red ones.

He prodded distractedly at the earth beneath one crimson-flowering bush with the toe of his boot. Perhaps this one could be removed. It was too visible from the house.

Raoul sighed, lost in thought, as was usual for him these days. He'd never meant for anything to harm or to upset Christine. He'd certainly never wanted anything like this to happen, ever.

The memory of their quarrel in Paris and its aftermath haunted him still. She'd attempted to break off the engagement at the Girys' and he hadn't wanted to listen. When she collapsed, he was beside himself. He never should have let her go to Paris, never should have let her out of his sight. Hadn't he promised to protect her, to always be there for her?

He blamed himself, and had felt it was his responsibility to make it right. He'd hurried her off in his carriage – he'd make good on his promise to protect her now.

Only she hadn't seemed to want him to.

Gradually, Christine had opened her eyes. He had been overcome with relief.

She had looked around her in some confusion. "Raoul? What happened? Where are we going?"

"You fainted. But it's going to be all right, I promise. I'll take care of you from now on."

"Where are you taking me? Raoul! You must take me back!"

He was upset that she still seemed to be agitated. "We're on our way to my estate. My doctor will have a look at you."

"Don't be silly," she said sharply. "I'm fine. I haven't eaten, that's all. Take me back. Please."

"Christine, I really think – "

She'd interrupted him, something she did very rarely. "Raoul. I can't marry you. I told you that. It would not be right for me to go to your home under these circumstances. Please accept that, and respect my choice."

He set his jaw. "You gave me no reason for this sudden strange fancy."

She was pleading with him, with her eyes and voice together. "I can't tell you why. I just know that I am not the right person to be your wife. I'm sorry."

"You're the only person to be my wife!"

"Don't say that!"

A thought had struck him – a thought he hated. He had put the quarrels they'd had before she left for Paris out of his mind, dismissing his own jealous fantasies as wedding nerves. But now…

"Christine. Does this have anything to do with _him_?"

She had turned from him and looked out the window. "If I tell you that it does, does that make it any better?"

"No!" He'd brought one hand down hard on the leather upholstery, causing her to jump. "It does _not_ make it _better_!"

"Then please stop asking," she said, simply.

"You said you loved me!"

"I do – oh, Raoul, I do! But not in that way. I don't want to hurt you."

"You are hurting me."

"I know, and I am more sorry for it than I can tell you."

"Then don't do it. Be my wife."

"Raoul. Please. I can't."

"Did you happen to see _him_ while you were in Paris?" He had known that was impossible, but he was angry.

She had turned that perfect face back to look at him. His heart skipped a beat every time she glanced his way.

"Do you want the truth?" she had asked.

"I do."

"Well, then, I did see him."

"Christine, that's impossible."

"Why do you ask me questions, only to contradict my answers?" she looked exasperated.

"Because the mobs chased him out of Paris! Everyone knows that! No one knows where he is. And you're telling me you saw him?"

"I'm telling you – Raoul – " she had taken a deep breath, and had then proceeded to tell him a tale so bizarre, so incredible, that he'd been sure that she was going mad. Or that he was.

"Christine." He was deeply concerned. "Listen to what you are saying. You're telling me that you entered a derelict building alone, at night, and that your singing magically summoned him?"

"I didn't 'magically summon' him. Not like a fairytale. He heard me, and he came."

"How? Where had he been?"

"He didn't say."

"And you didn't ask?"

She had looked down at her hands.

He continued. "And then – not only did you not get the ring back which you had come for, but this dangerous man, this wanted criminal, this man who is obsessed with you – just let you go? And that this means somehow that the wedding is off?"

"You didn't believe me that he even existed, at first. I don't know why I should have expected you to believe me now. Nor do I see why you would want to marry a woman whose word you consider so unreliable."

"Now you're angry."

"Yes, now I am."

Raoul came out of his reverie. He wished he could stop torturing himself with memories like this. They certainly brought him no pleasure. He took an angry swipe at the rosebush with his walking stick. The bush obligingly dropped one single, perfect, red rose on the path directly in front of him.

Raoul turned on his heel in disgust and walked in the opposite direction.

He should have returned her to the Girys'. If he had, the accident would never have happened. God! He ran a hand through his hair. What had he been thinking, carrying her off like that – against her will? He'd been so sure that he had known better than she. It amounted to kidnapping. And that made him no better than…

* * *

_…me_, Erik thought. _When it comes to abductions, you've lost some of your moral high ground, Monsieur le Viscomte. And if you have harmed her in any way… _

He thought for a moment, then added the Punjab lasso to his traveling bag, and buckled on his sword.


	4. Shadowed Visions

"Where is the nightingale,  
In what myrrh-wood and dim?  
Ah, let the night come back,  
For we would conjure back  
All that enchanted him…"

Hilda Doolittle, _Songs from Cyprus_

Christine dreamed.

_ There were lights now in her darkness; ephemeral pinpricks of brightness showed here and there, intermittently. She wandered closer._

_Stars? Fireflies?_

_No: candles. She could see tiny dancing candle flames, burning stronger as she neared, illuminating an enchanted grotto. She knew this place. She had been here before. And yet, it looked different, somehow…  
_

The man in grey watched in increasing frustration as Christine stirred again beneath the eiderdown. Two days. It had been nearly two days. Where the hell had he hidden that damned bottle?

_The grotto was hung with rich tapestries and velvet draperies. Stone gargoyles lined the walls. One of the gargoyles began to shudder and blink under Christine's gaze. This was curious, yet somehow she was not afraid. She felt protected in this place, sheltered from all harm._

_The shimmering gargoyle continued to move, and now began to walk toward her, slowly_.

Raoul climbed wearily up the stairs. He knew well what he would find, but he needed to check on her often, anyway. If only he could reach her…

He rounded the turn in the corridor that led to the room where Christine lay sleeping. The footman at the door appeared to be watching her intently. Was it possible – could there be any change?

"How is she?" he asked.

The man jumped. "Oh – sir – I was just about to summon you – "

Raoul looked into the room. Christine's position appeared to have shifted on the pillow. As he watched, she turned her head slightly once more. Gently, but it was movement.

"Christine!" he ran to her bedside.

_"Christine." The nearest gargoyle was calling her name. His voice sounded familiar. "Christine…"_

_Slowly and majestically, the gargoyle unfurled his wide wings, drew her close, and engulfed her tiny figure in his embrace. Here was darkness again, but it felt warm and safe…she reached out a hand to stroke the leathery surface, and felt it change under her touch. Rough, scarred leather changed to deep black feathers – dark as midnight and soft as silk. She drew one hand sensuously down the length of the pinion that held her and felt it shiver beneath her touch. Feathered wings. Not a gargoyle; not any longer. An angel? Was this her Angel of Music, come back to her at last?_

Christine stirred again. Raoul clasped her cold hand in his warm ones. "Christine? How long has she been – " he turned to question the footman, but the man had vanished. That was odd. Perhaps he'd gone for assistance? Well, he'd deal with it later. Raoul turned his gaze back to the object of his attention.

_Christine turned so that she could return the angel's embrace. His caress was like balm to her spirit. She'd felt lost for such a long time._

"_Erik?" she asked tentatively.  
_

Raoul blinked. It had sounded as though Christine were trying to speak – as though she'd said a name…but it wasn't his. Who the hell was Erik? He'd better get the doctor. Where had that blasted footman gone? He reached over and rang the bellpull vigorously to summon another servant, his gaze never leaving Christine's face.

_Talking was too much work, Christine decided. Surely her angel could hear her thoughts. He knew what she was thinking. He knew what was in her heart._

_Talking hurt. Thinking hurt, too. She became aware in a vague way of a throbbing ache on one side of her skull, though she felt detached from the pain somehow. She started to wonder what could have caused such strange discomfort and then began to remember. Oh. The accident._

_Memories were crowding back in on her now, some of them unpleasant._

_She remembered an argument. Raoul had been unhappy with her, though she couldn't remember why. He was taking her somewhere she didn't want to go, and she had been very upset. So upset that she had opened the door of his carriage once it had stopped, meaning to flee._

_But she hadn't looked, in her confusion, and there had been horses –_

_She wished to recall no more. She didn't wish to recall anything.She wanted to remain here, enfolded in the safe embrace of these soft dark wings, with only the candles for illumination, forever. She buried her face in the feathers._

Raoul continued to watch anxiously. Christine had only spoken the one word – but there _had_ been speech and movement – he'd heard and seen them. He touched one hand gingerly to the bandage on the left side of her head.

The day of the accident had been one of the worst days of his life. They'd argued most of the way back from Paris – or rather, _he_ had argued, pleaded, remonstrated, while Christine had remained mute after that first exchange.

Until they'd stopped in the road at the gates of his estate, waiting for them to open. She'd said only, "Raoul, I can't," before climbing out of the carriage. She'd been shaken and in a hurry, and her dress had caught. She'd fallen in the road, directly into the path of another carriage. The hooves of one of the horses had struck her in the head before the driver had been able to stop them.

It had been like a nightmare. He'd leapt to her aid, but he still had seemed to himself to be moving far too slowly. The sight of Christine lying in the road, pale and still, blood matting her beautiful hair – it had been almost more than he could bear. And it was all his fault.

He had rushed to her side, shouting her name over and over.

The driver of the other carriage had gone to summon the doctor, while Raoul had gently carried Christine in his arms all the way to the house.

For awhile, she had seemed to be on the mend; she had even written a few letters, but he was still greatly concerned for her health, both physically and mentally. He'd never forgive himself. He watched over her like a mother hen with one chick.

But then she had sunk into this inexplicable stupor – the doctor had been unable to account for it.

"How is she?"

Raoul turned. His doctor stood in the doorway.

"Thank God you've come. She appeared to be trying to speak, but I couldn't understand what she was saying. She made some movement, but she is now in much the same state as when you saw her last."

"Curious." The doctor took her pulse, and frowned.

"I've brought the young lady's medicine, sir," said an upstairs maid, looking in from the corridor.

"Medicine?"

"I prescribed no medicine," the doctor stated.

The maid looked puzzled. "The medicine that the new gentleman has been giving her? He was storing it in the wrong cupboard, but I thought he didn't know better, being new and all. So I took it upon myself to move it to the proper place."

The doctor took the bottle from her. "How often has he been giving this to her?"

"Once daily, sir." The maid looked concerned. "Have I done something wrong? I meant to tell him that I had moved it, but he seems to have gone."

Raoul dashed out, leaving the doctor to attend to Christine. He soon found that the maid had spoken truly – the footman and all of his belongings had disappeared – along with three fine candlesticks and a set of silver teaspoons.

Raoul wearily made his way back up the large main staircase. What the devil was going on?

A young pageboy stopped him.

"Yes, what is it?" Raoul was tired and felt at his wits' end.

"Begging your pardon, sir – but this came for your lady. A messenger just delivered it."

"Thank you."

Who was sending things to Christine? Raoul opened the small parcel. Inside, wrapped in a nest of white tissue paper, was the engagement ring that he had given to her. The same ring that –

Raoul ran the rest of the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time.


	5. Phantom's Game

A king of beauty and tempest and thunder  
Panting to tear our sorrows asunder:  
A dragon of fair adventure and wonder.  
We mounted the back of that royal slave  
With thoughts of desire that were noble and grave.  
- Vachel Lindsay, _The Chinese Nightingale_

Really, thought Erik, sometimes fate made things too easy.

The man in grey, intent on checking over his shoulder to make certain that no pursuit was issuing from the de Chagny estate, did not even look at the hidden corners - dark even at midday - in the winding lanes he began to pass down. He was not aware of a shadow detaching itself from deeper shadows and marking his trail.

Erik, the hood of his cloak raised over his head to hide his mask, had followed him out of instinct and curiosity. He'd seen the doctor enter the estate and had been waiting for his departure, but this man, who clearly had something to hide, had interrupted that plan. Stealthy comings and goings from the chateau might yield interesting information if properly investigated.

The man in grey had walked only a few steps down a narrow and deserted alley, when he suddenly found his arm twisted behind him and his face pressed roughly against the wall.

"Now," said his captor, "Who are you, and what do you know of the Viscomte de Chagny?"

The man was silent.

"I see."

Erik kicked open a door and wrestled the man into the dusty and dim building behind it. They were in a small storage shed, lit only by the weak sunlight that found its way through the chinks between the boards from which it was built. He caught the door with his boot, closing it behind them, and released his prisoner, who promptly backed against the opposite wall.

"Who are you?"

"I'd prefer it if you answered my question first," Erik said, keeping his back to the little light there was.

"And if I refuse?"

A slithering, metallic noise, and the faint gleam of the blade of the skull-hilted sword served as an answer.

"I see. So it's like that, is it?"

"I'm afraid so. Now. Would you like to talk?"

The man in grey seemed to fold in on himself. He dropped the sack he had been carrying and collapsed in a heap beside it.

Not letting his guard down, Erik followed him, allowing the tip of his sword to rest just below the man's chin, but keeping himself between the man and the door.

The man in grey looked up. All he could see was a dark, hooded figure standing over him, the steel of its sword seeming to glow in the dim light.

"My name is Randolph Buquet. You won't have heard of me, whoever you are – but I take it that you are yourself no friend of the Viscomte?"

"My business is my own. Go on."

"Well. As you may or may not know, then, the de Chagnys, and in particular the Viscomte, were the main patrons of the old Opera House before it burned. My brother worked for them, up in the flies. He was a scene-shifter; a man of all work. A bit of a ne'er-do-well, but family's family all the same. Blood's thicker than water, eh?"

Randolph Buquet paused, perhaps hoping for encouragement or a sign of fellow-feeling from the cloaked figure. He received nothing except a continuation of the tense, expectant silence.

"Right." He cleared his throat. The tip of the sword on his neck was difficult to ignore. "My brother – whatever his flaws – was killed on the job. And not just killed. Murdered! Right in the Opera House, onstage, in the middle of a performance. Nobody deserves a fate like that. Nobody. Like his death was part of the entertainment, almost. They barely batted an eye, the management.." He wiped at one eye with a grubby hand. The sword did not waver.

"And you believe the Viscomte de Chagny was the one who killed your brother?" The voice from the darkness sounded incredulous.

"He might as well have been!" Randolph nearly shouted. "For all he cared! For all any of them cared – it was 'Put on the ballet, so sorry for the inconvenience,' as if he'd done something embarrassing by daring to be killed in front of people. As if he'd had a choice.

"And the Viscomte's the one responsible for all that went on, when it comes down to it, isn't he? His family was funding the whole damned thing at the time – pretty much owned the place; everyone eating out of his hand and kowtowing to him – and him acting like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth."

Randolph shifted his seat. The tears had come, and ran unchecked down his face, though whether they were tears of frustration, anger, or sorrow was impossible to tell.

"At the end of the day, it's always some nob responsible. If they get the praise when things go right, they ought to get the blame when things go wrong. It's always the people who suffer, not the aristos. They don't care!

"My family and me – we tried to get a bit of compensation. Not like they couldn't afford it! But the management wouldn't hear of it. And they took their orders from the Viscomte directly, didn't' they? Called it an accident, and they were so sorry, but what could be done? These things did happen, a terrible tragedy. Couldn't be helped. Got tangled in the ropes and fell, they said. Well, I saw him! Accident, my eye! There were marks around his neck! But we got no money, no compensation, no nothing. All but told us to clear out."

Randolph sat and sniffled a bit, having apparently run out of steam.

"So," the cloaked figure said, at the end of this rambling speech, "Hating the de Chagny family as much as you obviously do – the next logical step was to go in service to them? That grey livery is theirs, I believe. Forgive me if I don't quite follow."

"Well. Had to keep an eye on him, didn't we? I mean, to look for an opportunity to get a bit of our own then. Another accident, you might say. Tit for tat."

Erik snorted. "You meant to harm the Viscomte de Chagny? You honestly expected that to work?"

"I managed to get a place there – they didn't even recognize the name, and I used my own! We mean nothing to them. You'd be surprised what you can get away with when someone thinks you're invisible."

"As it happens," Erik said, "I wouldn't." The man had most likely been hired by a butler or some other upper servant, who'd never have heard of Joseph Buquet or his troublesome clan in his life, and would have had no reason to.

"And then he brings this new wife back from Paris – "

"Wife?" This was said quite sharply.

"Easy with the sword there, mate – sir," Randolph amended. "They're not exactly married yet. I mean, the girl's pretty and all, but a bit – if you know what I mean?" He made circular motions next to his ear with one finger.

"Explain." The man in the cloak had grown quiet and still, and in this stillness, Randolph sensed danger. He had stepped into unfamiliar territory, somehow, and knew he had to proceed with caution.

"When he first brought her back, she was unwell – injured. They'd had some kind of carriage wreck and she'd hurt her head. Got better physically, but in the head? Not quite so much. We could hear them arguing; all the servants could. She wanted to break off their engagement – and you'll never believe the reason why." His tone had become placating.

"Do tell."

"The Phantom of the Opera! Remember that old legend? Her wits must've been all jumbled up by the accident or something. Is that not the craziest thing you've ever heard? The Phantom was a story my brother used to tell to scare the ballet girls – just an old Opera House myth. They used that lame old excuse for every mishap that ever happened there, right up to the fire. Including the fire! I heard some had the nerve to blame him for my brother's death, but my brother was killed by a real man, and I doubt it was that poor crazy bastard I heard they were looking for in the cellars either, whatever that mess was all about.

"Anyway, after the bump on the head, the poor chit thinks he's real. I couldn't tell from their arguing whether she fancies herself in love with him or she's terrified he's going to come carry her off in the night. But who can tell with mad people, eh? She was upset, the Viscomte was upset, and all was in chaos. He practically had to keep her prisoner there to keep her from running off! That's when fate, in the form of Randolph Buquet, took a hand."

"And how was that, exactly?"

"My cousin's a chemist. He knows things. He can get things."

"What sorts of things?"

"Opium." Randolph Buquet managed to look proud – or as proud as one can look when one is at the wrong end of a sword.

"You gave the Viscomte opium?"

"No, no. Not him. _Her_. They were always trying to get her to calm down and be still, right? Well, I got her to calm down and be still, all right. He didn't half take on –"

Randolph never saw the cloaked figure move, but half a second later, the blade of the sword was pressed so tightly against his throat, crosswise, that crimson drops of his blood began to bead its edge. The sudden movement had thrown the hood of the cloak backward, revealing a white mask.

"Holy Mother – "

Randolph's eyes gaped wide.

"She's not going to help you," Erik hissed.

"You're him – "

"And now, you will tell me _exactly _what you did to Christine, and I will decide whether you live or die."


	6. Gathering Dusk

"I heard it, and I followed;  
The warm night swallowed  
This soul and body of mine,  
As burning thirst takes wine"  
- Harold Munro, _Hast Thou Heard the Nightingale?_

Erik sat, head bowed, slumped in a corner of the shed. His bloodstained sword hung loosely in his hand. He'd done it. He couldn't believe he'd done it. He was seriously beginning to question some of his own actions again.

He'd let the bastard go.

He'd wounded him enough - though inadvertently - to put the fear of God - or the Phantom - into him when he'd pressed the blade against the brute's neck, but in the end, he'd let him go.

Was this what it was to be like then, always, this trying to be a better man? Hounded by actions from his past, chased - still - by his own demons, never able to escape nor to atone? And feeling powerless to take action against his enemies into the bargain? Odd, how doing the wrong thing sometimes felt right, and trying hard to do the right thing sometimes felt all wrong.

He felt weary; drained. It had taken a supreme effort to master his rage enough to refrain from killing Randolph Buquet. The man had poisoned Christine. In Erik's eyes, this was an unforgivable sin; yet it was for her sake that he had not killed.

Thinking this way was new, and he was not used to it. He liked things simple: if there was an obstacle blocking your path, eliminate it. Everything had become more complicated somehow, since he'd acted on his feelings for Christine. But it was all worth it, if only for the chance of seeing her again. He was living for that.

Two things at least had become clear to him: the Viscomte could not be trusted to keep her safe, and she was not with him of her own free will.

Something would have to be done, but that something would have to wait until nightfall. Erik cleaned his sword and began to make plans to procure the supplies he'd need.

He found it hard to concentrate; he could swear he felt Christine's proximity like a physical pull; a yearning of the spirit, mind, and body to be reunited with the other half of itself. Surely she could feel it too...

* * *

...Christine felt nothing at all. She dreamed no longer; no longer thought of anything. Her spirit was weary, having struggled too long without respite against illness and injury, and now sought only forgetfulness and oblivion. Her awareness had become buried deep within her mind. She embraced the darkness inside herself as her spirit floated in limbo.

* * *

Raoul was as frantically engaged in activity as Christine was dormant. He had startled the doctor by racing up the stairs, brandishing a ring like some sort of trophy.

"He's here."

"Excuse me?" The medical man was taken aback.

"He's coming. I know it. Dammit! He'll come for her. I'll have to guard her. Carefully. He'll take her if she's not watched every second."

The doctor only blinked at him in shock. Raoul forced himself to try to speak calmly. "The man who tried to kidnap her once before has returned to Paris, and I fear he may try the same thing again."

"What will you do?"

"Whatever needs to be done," the Viscomte said grimly.

* * *

Erik watched the chateau from a wooded corner of the de Chagny estate as dusk fell.

There were so many things that could go wrong, yet he would think about none of them. The important thing was to get Christine back. He'd risk all for her sake; he'd done it before.

* * *

Raoul paced restlessly. He was certain that the Phantom would make his move soon. Until then, he'd have a guard at Christine's door and at each of the entrances. No one would be able to pass in or out undetected. He'd be ready.

* * *

Erik removed a few items from his rucksack. The diversion he had planned wouldn't confuse the de Chagny household for long, but if all went well, he wouldn't need very long.

He looked across at the chateau again, watching the lamps being lit in the rooms as the day drew to a close and the light waned. The main hall, the library, the study, the dining hall were illuminated one by one.

He knew, from questioning Randolph Buquet, in which room Christine had been placed. No light appeared in that window, but the man had said that the room was kept in darkness. Erik had no choice but to hope that the man had been too frightened to tell anything but the truth.

Christine, he'd said, had recovered from her head wound, and her current state was solely due to the drug she'd been given. Moving her should cause her no harm though it would be difficult.

Finally, Erik considered it dark enough to act.

Several sets of firecrackers - not the large kind set off for jubilees and celebrations, but the small kind that boys liked to light in the street - and fuses of varying lengths would sound enough like gunfire at first for the household to be thrown into confusion for a little while. The Commune had been put down, but the aristocracy was always jumpy after an uprising.

Erik lit the fuses and blended into the night, heading towards the chateau. He would meet the Viscomte again, face to face - of that he was sure - but now was not the time. First he must secure Christine.

He had a grappling hook and rope for the ascent, and a rope ladder for the descent. He was ready.

* * *

The first series of small explosions created every bit as much of a stir as Erik could have wished.

"Guns! They've got guns!" a panicked housemaid screamed, not bothering to explain who she thought "they" were. "We'll all be murdered in our beds!"

Raoul, his own weapon at the ready, tried to calm her (and forbore from pointing out that she could hardly be murdered in her bed if she wasn't in it) and the other, more frantic members of his staff, and to stem the rising panic.

By the time the second round of reports had begun, which sounded identical to the first, Raoul had begun to have his suspicions.

"Hang on a minute," said a manservant, gathering courage enough to peer out into the darkness. "I can't see a soul. Who's doing the shooting, then?"

"I don't think those are guns at all," Raoul said, when the third volley sounded.

"It's fireworks!" said the manservant. "I'll bet my arm. Someone's been having a game with you, sir. Shall I go look for him?"

"Yes, do that," said Raoul, "But go armed, all the same, and leave someone at the door."

"Why would - " the man began, but Raoul exclaimed, "Christine!" and bolted for her room.

Though the guard was still in place at her door, and swore he had not left, Raoul felt a deep sense of forboding. He threw open the door, and after a quick look inside, beat his fist on the door and shouted for his men.

The bed was empty, the covers thrown back, and Christine had vanished. Curtains blew gently in the night breeze coming through the open window.


	7. Sequestered

"The one vain longing - through all journeys,  
The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot,  
All the soft-swarming dark where you were not,  
Still longed for"  
- Josephine Preston Peabody, _The Nightingale Unheard_

It took longer than he had expected to move her.

Erik had the ways and means at his disposal: undetectable methods of travel; unknown and long-forgotten routes. He felt secure about his chances of evading pursuit; the Viscomte, with his characteristic forthrightness and lack of subtlety, would be sure to check the most obvious paths of escape and locations first. Erik did not worry about being apprehended.

Christine's health, however, was a grave concern. At several points during the journey, he'd been certain she was about to awaken, but she never roused completely. He'd been as gentle as possible while moving her, but her unresponsiveness worried him. Now, lying in the bed he'd provided for her, she had almost the appearance of death, were it not for her faint heartbeat and shallow breathing.

Erik looked through the doorframe at her still form. She had always been thin, but her fragility now was verging on malnourishment and dehydration. He had to suppress a surge of anger at the Viscomte's neglect, and that of his physician. Did the young idiot and his pet doctor have no idea at all about how to care for someone who was ill?

He frowned. Surely this was more than simply the reaction to the drug. She almost seemed to have lost the will to live.

He'd bring her back from whatever dark place her consciousness had fled to. He had to. Any alternative was unthinkable.

But staring at her wasn't doing any good. He'd move around a bit but stay within earshot.

Erik strode to the front door of his small cottage, stretched, and surveyed his domain. This cave was much larger than the cave in which he'd made his old home, but it was part of the same large underground system, and was connected to it by a long and complex series of winding passages. Much of Paris seemed to be built over hollow ground - tunnels, lakes, sewers, catacombs - it was a wonder that the whole city didn't sink into the earth.

Sunlight filtered in through several natural openings high in the rock walls. He'd built a small dwelling here, down in the shadows, years ago, and had occasionally used it as a bolt-hole even when he'd lived beneath the Opera House. This was the place he had always come to, to escape pursuit.

The cottage fronted another small lake, part of a vast network of water-worn caves and tunnels created by the same underground river and its tributaries. There was a broad, flat, shore here, and it was upon this that he had built.

* * *

_A vague, grey, awareness began to intrude upon Christine, bit by bit. She was unconscious of her surroundings, but she began to be troubled by an occasional sense of self._

_This was unwanted. It was oblivion she sought. She had forgotten what ills she was fleeing from - mental, physical, spiritual, emotional, or some combination, but she had a strong sense of not wishing to return._

_Her body pulled at her as it began to shake off the drug. She wanted only peace, solitude, and nothingness, but something was tugging at the corner of her mind still tethered to her physical being. She sought to escape, but it tightened its grip. Whatever it was that wanted her pulled her down, down, down relentlessly, with a grip like iron._

_In some corner of her mind, she knew she'd have to rouse herself to fight again._

* * *

A noise from inside the house startled Erik out of his reverie; he rushed at once to Christine's bedside.

She seemed to be having some sort of seizure; she was shaking uncontrollably, and one of her flailing hands had knocked a tumbler off the bedside table.

"Christine!" He held her as she shook, feeling guilty for treasuring the warm weight of her in his arms at the same time that he felt sick himself over her illness.

He held her as tightly as he could without hurting her. It was the withdrawal from the opium; it had to be. Much as he hated the thought, he was going to have to give her more of the wretched stuff in order to wean her off of it safely, and he'd prepared accordingly. He cursed himself again for not killing the loathsome brute who had done this to her while he'd had the chance.

Watching her closely, he waited until the worst of the fit had passed, and prepared a carefully-measured dose. He braced her head, and eased the liquid past her lips, then placed her gently back onto the pillow.

Unbelievably, her eyes fluttered open. The violence of the fit had roused something in her. She looked so young; so very fragile. A surge of hope welled within him, but she appeared unable to focus or to make sense of anything she saw, and her eyes soon closed again. Erik sat, watching her sleep, until he too fell into an exhausted slumber in a chair by her bedside.

For three days and nights, he watched her closely, offering ever-diminishing doses of the drug, and trying to get some broth and water past her lips. She had one more fit, more severe than the last but shorter in duration. Watching her suffer felt like having the living heart cut out of his body.

He awoke at dawn on the fourth day, with a feeling that something had changed during the night.

Looking over at the bed, he was startled to find himself looking into Christine's eyes. He bolted to his feet, staring down at her, afraid even to breathe.

She swallowed and tried to moisten her lips with her tongue.

"Don't try to speak," Erik said, kneeling by her side once more. "It's all right. You're safe."

She appeared determined to speak, regardless. Her voice, unused for so long, was barely more than a whisper. She looked surprised and confused.

"Maestro?" she asked.


	8. Grey Dawn

_A/N - I'm really sorry for the long delay in getting this up. I had one or two other projects I wanted to get to, and I'm now recovering from some minor surgery, but I wanted to get this chapter up. I hope it's not too disjointed. Thank you to those of you who are still reading!  
_

"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
Fled is the music: Do I wake or sleep?  
- John Keats, _Ode to a Nightingale_

"Maestro?" Christine's eyes were brimming with tears.

"Shh," Erik said, trying to remain calm, though his heart was pounding wildly. Thank the gods she was awake! "Don't cry. It's all right; you're safe."

"Never thought – see you again," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't try to talk," Erik said, "And you needn't be so formal." He dipped one corner of the towel from the room's washstand in the basin and began gently laving her face. She relaxed slightly under his care, closing her eyes.

"Formal?" she asked, hoarsely.

"You can use my name, you know."

"Never told me."

Erik froze. "What?"

Christine opened her eyes, puzzled. "Never told – name."

"Christine. You don't remember me telling you my name?"

She moved her head slightly on the pillow, signifying, "no."

"What is the last thing you do remember?"

"Boat. Raoul."

Oh, God. "You don't remember anything at all after that?"

She frowned. "Yes – but confused." She raised a hand shakily to her head.

Erik was trying not to panic. She'd been through her own version of hell recently. Trauma of any kind could cause temporary disorientation – he knew that too well from experience – and she'd certainly had more than her share of trauma.

He didn't think he'd be able to bear it if something were wrong with Christine, something he might have been able to prevent if only he'd not had to leave Paris. And if she had been harmed, besides wanting to do himself damage, he'd want to kill a certain –

Clamping down on that thought, hard, Erik blocked it from his mind. Now was not the time for violence, nor even thoughts of it.

He realized he was staring when he caught Christine looking at him, worriedly.

"It will all come back to you," he told her, forcing himself to project a calm he was far from feeling. "You've been ill – very ill – but you'll soon be well now. All you need to do is rest."

"But – "

"Hush," he said, gently. "You've talked far too much already. Rest now. Everything is all right, I promise you."

Christine accepted a small sip of water from the tumbler next to her bedside, then settled herself back against the pillow. She watched him as he slipped out the door, leaving it open a crack so that he could hear her, should she need him.

His manner puzzled her. Everything puzzled her. Her head ached abominably, and she felt as if she'd been tossed down several flights of stairs. Thinking hurt, but she felt as though she'd disappointed or distressed her teacher somehow, and that bothered her. He was being so kind.

If only everything wasn't so foggy! How long had she been ill? When had she become ill? It was frustrating to feel that her mind and body were not hers to control. She was angry at being disoriented, and angry at not being able to remember anything – yet she felt curiously safe being under the protection of her teacher once again. That was odd, surely, since she'd left him – or had he left her? Hadn't she come back to Paris at some point? It seemed so long since she'd seen him – if only she could remember how long. But, dear Lord, how her head ached.

Christine sighed, and decided to accept the feeling of security without further questioning – at least for now. All would become clear in time – she'd put her shattered memories together like a puzzle, until all the pieces fit. This strange man fed her soul in some curious fashion; he had ever since she'd known him…

Worn out by the effort of being awake, Christine fell into the first non-drugged slumber she'd had in weeks.

* * *

Erik made his way down the short corridor to the cottage's small parlor, feeling as though he were sleepwalking. He fell into a chair and rested his head in his hands.

God. No. She didn't remember coming back to him. She didn't remember his name. She didn't remember –

He made a strangled sound of pain, clenching his fists.

She would, though. He refused to consider any other possibility. Everything would be restored. All would be as it had been when they'd found each other.

Erik slumped in his chair. He was vacillating between blaming himself for Christine's memory loss, blaming the Viscomte, and cursing all the Fates individually. Dammit. He'd tried to be so careful while moving her.

He'd hired a carriage and horses, and fixed the seats with boards and blankets to serve as a bed. He had driven down obscure roads and shortcuts which he'd known the Viscomte would not bother with, and had proceeded carefully and slowly, moving only at night. Once inside the city limits, he'd gone underground and had carried Christine, still swaddled in blankets, in his arms for the entire way. She was so light to carry – a breeze, an angel's breath.

It had possibly been unwise to move her. But surely it would have been less wise to leave her? She'd been _dying _there.

No. He wouldn't think about that. Her condition had improved, and would continue to improve.

He wished he could confide in the Girys – but surely the Viscomte would check with them first. He was unused to feeling the desire to confide in anyone about anything. For himself he never would – but when it came to Christine – she made him want to do things differently. She made him feel human.

He heard a soft sound from her room, and roused himself from his reverie to rush to her bedside. She was trying to pick up the tumbler of water, but muscles not used in weeks were proving uncooperative. It would take time to get her strength back.

"Let me do that," he said. And after she'd had her drink, "You should have summoned me."

"How?"

That was a good question. "Wait a moment," he said. "I've an idea."

Erik absented himself for a few minutes, returning with a tiny silver handbell, a slate, and a piece of chalk.

Christine eyed this assemblage of objects skeptically, then looked at him and quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes, all right," he admitted gruffly, "I do keep an odd assortment of things about. Surely you've noticed that I can be a bit of a…packrat…before now. Don't laugh! You'll hurt yourself! Do be serious, Christine!"

Christine was covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes twinkling.

Fine, he thought. If she was well enough to laugh at him, she must be getting better.

"Now look. Ring the bell if you need me. Don't try to pick up the slate; it's too heavy, but the chalk should be all right. Write what you want to say on the slate, and you can erase with the cloth…don't try to talk. Can you do that? …Oh yes, that is very humorous, Christine. Exceedingly amusing." Dryly.

She had written I AM ILL, NOT STUPID on the slate.

"Yes, well, fine," he went on, nervously. "I am not accustomed to nursing invalids. I wasn't sure you could handle the chalk…now, THAT is not at all a becoming face for a young lady to make."

Christine put her tongue back into her mouth, and wrote DON'T FUSS on the slate.

"I am not _fussing_," Erik fussed. "I do not _fuss_. I'm worried. I'm trying to help you," he said, trying to regain some of the dignity he felt he'd somehow lost, though he could not quite figure out how or why, "There's a difference. And I think that's quite enough excitement for you for right now. Another sip of water, and you can rest again. Later you can try some soup – and," he added hastily, seeing her pick up the chalk again, "If you write one more sarcastic thing, I shall take the slate away. Now be a good girl, and rest."

Erik backed hastily out of the door, and paused in the corridor, leaning against the wall. _Be a good girl? _He sounded like a damned nursemaid! Even with her memory missing, Christine had a way of disrupting his life like no one else.

And really, this illness had done nothing to enhance her sense of humor.

By damn, it was good to have her around again, though.


	9. Parting Fog

**(A/N – I'm sorry to those of you reading that there's been such a long wait for this chapter. Real Life and the urge to play with AU versions of Erik sidetracked me for awhile. I fully intend to finish all my fics, though. Hope you like this chapter…)**

"Nightingales in quiet lands lament:  
Single melancholy notes."  
- Fethullah Gulen, _Fall_

The silver bell tinkled for the third time within half an hour. Erik hid a grin before appearing at the door to Christine's room.

"I am summoned by urgent royal command," he said, executing a mocking bow.

Christine smiled. "Neither urgent nor royal, nor yet a command; merely a question."

Erik cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

"My question is the same one I had earlier: mayn't I get up today?"

"Do you really feel up to it?" He was concerned. Her voice had come back several days ago, but she was still extremely fragile.

"I think so. I'd like to try. I know I'm still recovering, but I've been resting for a week, that I can recall – how long has it been?"

"You've been here for a week. I don't know how long before that."

"Yes, but what happened?" Christine bit her lip. It never did any good to press him; he wouldn't tell her anything. But it was so frustrating not to be able to remember, and her Maestro seemed so sad sometimes – as if he'd lost something very dear to him. She hated to see him like that, and felt as though she might be able to help if only she knew what he was searching for.

"I don't know all of it," he responded. "It will come back to you, I'm sure." He was still avoiding the subject.

Christine sighed and gave up the questioning. "Anyway. I'd like to get up, but I'm in my nightdress."

"So you are. Do you feel up to dressing yourself? I have some clothes that will fit you."

He really was a packrat. Christine smiled. "Is there anything you _don't_ have?"

Erik returned her smile, but kept silent. _I don't have you_, he thought. _Not whole. Not yet…but soon? Please, soon._

"I don't know about dressing myself," Christine admitted, "Probably not just yet. Could you help me to stand up?"

"I'll get you my dressing gown so you don't catch a chill," Erik said. He vanished and returned an instant later with the item in question, handing it to her.

It wasn't until he saw her slipping her slender arms through the oversized velvet sleeves that he realized he'd made a grave error. He took a step back, as the memory of the last time she'd worn his robe returned with a sudden, painful intensity.

_Fool_, he berated himself. _What where you thinking? If you're trying not to remind yourself, you're tripping up at every step. _He closed his eyes against the rush of feeling. _Let her remember, he thought. Let her feel the same way. I don't know how I'll live if she doesn't…_

"Maestro…are you all right?" Christine was looking at him with concern.

"Hm? Oh," he said. "Headache. That's all."

"If you have a migraine, I can certainly wait. I know I'm a trouble to you, and I do appreciate your kindness."

"You're no trouble," he said, gently. "And it's gone."

"That was quick…" Dubiously.

"Mmm. Don't worry on my account. Are you ready? Let me lift you out of bed. Here…"

Christine put her arms around Erik's neck and looked up into his face. She inhaled sharply. His arms about her felt warm, strong and familiar. There was something – being this near to him teased her memory; made her aware of wanting back what had gone missing. _If only…_

Suddenly, she became aware that she was staring; and more than that, that he was staring, too. Her heart seemed to pound erratically, but not with illness. His eyes were so green; his face was so near that she could see the shadow on his jaw where he'd shaved that morning. …The shadow on half of his jaw. _I wish he wouldn't always wear the mask_, she thought. She leaned closer.

I wish…I want… 

Christine's thought was interrupted as Erik blinked, then reached around and rather roughly removed her arms from about his neck.

"Would you excuse me?" he said. "I think I'll have those headache tablets after all." He all but flew out of her room, shutting the door behind him.

Christine looked after him, open-mouthed.

_God. GodGodGodGodGod. _Erik leaned against the wall in his own room, trying to tame his pulse into a slower, more natural beat by force of will.

Being that close to her had completely overwhelmed his sense and emotions. He spent every day trying desperately to disguise the depth of her effect on him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. He was terrified of betraying himself, of doing accidentally something to frighten her before she regained her memory. The last thing he wanted in the world was to lose her trust.

But to be that close, and have her not remember how much closer they'd been was killing him. The touch of her hands against his neck had undone him. He tried to avoid the contact of flesh on flash as much as possible, but that had been accidental. He'd wanted to hold her tight against him, to kiss her hair, to thank the fates for her continuing recovery – and to jump into the damn bed with her. He groaned.

_She was ill_, he reminded himself. She needed time and she needed to heal. She didn't need to be battered by his inability to master himself. _Control_, he thought. _Control yourself_. Control had always been something that he was better at doing to other people than to himself. But he was learning. Wasn't he?

Right. Erik took a deep breath, strode back to Christine's room, and opened the door.

"Are you certain you're well?" she asked. Really, his behavior was so odd. He _must _be feeling ill. "You look flushed."

"Just the headache. The tablets will fix it. Don't worry, I won't drop you," he said. He sounded reassuring, but he refused to meet her glance. "Are you ready?"

Christine nodded, putting her arms round his neck again and looking at him with concern. This time he was better prepared.

"Up you go."

He lifted her up and set her gingerly on the floor, letting her lean on him for balance. She took a step, shakily, and beamed him a smile that made him feel weak in the knees all over again. This time he stood his ground.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak as a kitten," she admitted, "But so much better than I did!" Christine took another two steps before he felt her legs buckle.

"I think that's enough for today," Erik decided, scooping her up.

_Being in his arms feels so good_, Christine thought_, so right somehow. _Gently, she put one hand against his chest, amazed that she could see the beating of his heart through both shirt and vest. _But can it be right? What about – _

…_Distraction_, thought Erik desperately, _is needed. Or I shall go insane upon the instant, and probably drop Christine into the bargain, and I'd better think of something quickly or I won't be able to think at all. Oh, GOD. She is moving her hand. Think._

Erik cleared his throat, which made Christine look up at him. He shifted her slightly, causing her to re-clasp her hands behind his neck for balance.

"Would you like to see where we are?" he asked. She nodded.

Erik walked carefully to the front door of the cottage, Christine in his arms.

"Oh," she breathed. "It's beautiful…"

It was mid-day, and light streamed in through the high openings in the rock cliff. The portion of the lake in sunshine sparkled and threw reflections against the walls of the cavern. Their movement had evidently startled a roosting pair of rock doves; the birds flew up from a ledge and circled the cave twice before settling again.

"Did you see the birds?"

"I did. There are several pairs that nest here."

"So lovely," Christine whispered.

The moment hung between them, a pure and perfect thing, like a droplet of water suspended in mid-air, before Christine recalled something and unintentionally shattered it.

"Maestro…where's Raoul?"

* * *

Raoul strapped on his sword. He and his men had searched for Christine for a solid week without success. The Phantom seemed to have vanished from the city and taken her with him. All his efforts to track the man had ended in dead ends, but Raoul was certain he had not taken her far. She was ill, and he wouldn't risk it.

Frustrated but not discouraged, Raoul reflected that he had, however, been able to track someone else: the manservant who had left right before Christine disappeared. He didn't know whether these two events were connected, and the man was in the Phantom's employ, but there was only one way to find out. He was going to Paris again, but alone.

It was time to have a quiet word with that manservant.


	10. Surfacing

'"I'll never love any but you," the morning song of the lark;  
"I'll never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the dark.'

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"All right, brace yourself."

"No! Don't do it!" Christine held a hand to her face protectively, covering the bandage over her head wound.

"It really will hurt less if I take it quickly, Christine."

"You say that, but I think it hurts more."

"Take your hand away," Erik insisted. "Let me change the dressing."

Christine sighed, removing her hand.

Erik ripped.

"Ow!" Christine's hand flew back to its former position. "Brute! You wouldn't like it any better if I ripped something off of your…"

Erik blinked, not saying a word.

Christine bit her lip, suddenly realizing what she had said, looking up at him warily. His tongue was thrust into his cheek; he was struggling for composure – but against laughter, not temper. She relaxed. Well, at least he wasn't angry. She was never quite sure how he was going to react.

"Quite the little comedian you've become," he remarked dryly.

"I didn't mean – "

"I know. Never mind. Now let me see." He dabbed at her forehead with a damp cloth, appearing pleased. Once the sting of having the stuck gauze pulled away from the wound faded, she realized that the pain from the injury itself was significantly less than it had been. And the warm water felt soothing.

"It itches."

"That means it's healing." Erik finished cleaning the dried blood from her forehead, then gently brushed his long fingers against the place he'd just been washing. Christine shivered.

"Does that hurt?"

"No." But she didn't want to tell him how good it felt, either. She leaned into his touch slightly, but he took his hand away. "I think you can do without the bandage now. There's some bruising, but the wound itself has quite healed. And the bone doesn't appear to have been damaged. You're not having headaches or pain?"

"I'm not. I just wish I could remember how it happened."

He stood. "I know. But stop trying to force it. It will come."

His avoidance of any questions concerning her space of missing time frustrated Christine, but she tried to accept it. He'd flatly refused to discuss Raoul, and there were other topics that were touchy as well. Her teacher was, as always, a mystery.

Oddly, she trusted him. From what she could recall, she had ample reason not to, but her instinct warred with her intellect on this matter, and she chose to follow her instinct. At any rate, she currently didn't have much choice, and she was grateful for his care.

"Would you still like that bath?" Erik asked.

"Oh, yes, please!" Christine brightened. She had been up and around for a few days now and was tired of giving herself sponge baths. She thought of the zinc hip bath with longing, glad that she felt able to climb in and out by herself now.

"I'll put the water on to heat," Erik said. He left, closing the door behind him.

Christine sank back with a sigh. Bathing and dressing in something other than sickroom attire seemed like such luxuries. She couldn't wait to feel like something other than a complete invalid again. She ran a hand through her thick hair, encountering a tangle_. I must look like a complete fright_, she thought. The brush and comb that had lain on the bedside table were missing; Christine rose and began looking around. They weren't on the dresser or writing desk, either. She began pulling drawers out, thinking they might have been put away somewhere.

She found neither brush nor comb, but in the back of one of the dresser drawers was a crumpled postal card. The address was smudged and illegible. She flipped it over, idly, and read it.

_Raoul thinks I am mad._

_Please come._

_C._

The handwriting was hers. She couldn't remember writing any such thing. The card fell from her hand to the floor just as Erik entered the room again.

* * *

Raoul knocked at the door to the shabby dwelling, not really expecting an answer. He was surprised to see a crack open between door and frame, but considerably less than surprised when the eye that appeared in the crack widened in alarm and vanished.

Raoul prised his shoulder against the door, forcing his way in; then grabbed the eye's owner and forced him up against the wall.

"Not again," Randolph Buquet groaned. "I should get paid every time someone takes it into his head to slam _my_ head against the bricks!"

"Consider the candlesticks and silver spoons as your reward, then," Raoul said.

"Yes, well, anyway. Could I sit down?"

"Not until you tell me what I want to know. Did the Phantom – or the man who calls himself so - pay you to poison Christine?"

Randolph Buquet laughed incredulously. "You really have no idea how things stand, do you?"

"Illuminate me."

"Are you looking for him, then? I've got a score to settle with him, myself."

"That's not what I asked," Raoul said, tightening his grip.

"Ow, easy. If you're looking for him, I'll tell you this: there's some that say he still haunts the old Opera House." Since his own encounter, Randolph had made enquiries through avenues of his own, but had turned up only superstition and rumor.

"I'm not looking for childish riddles or foolish ghost stories. I'm looking for a man."

"All's I know is what I heard. I've no reason to love him, either."

"The Opera House is a ruin."

"The tunnels underneath never burned. That place is a warren."

Raoul let him go. Randolph fell back a few steps.

"You'd best not be lying."

Randolph held up his hands as the Vicomte stormed out. Let the nobs sort each other out; he hated them both. But now that he'd put his former employer on the trail of the man who'd nearly slit his throat, he felt a personal interest in the outcome. He'd trail the young aristocrat and see how things played out.

* * *

Christine faced Erik, her eyes wide with fear.

"Am I mad? Have I been in an asylum? Is that what I don't remember?" she asked in a whisper.

Erik looked puzzled, then noticed the card at her feet. He stooped to pick it up.

"I was looking for the brush and comb," Christine said, shakily.

"I put them next to the bath. And no. You're not mad." His voice was gentle.

"But Raoul thought I was."

"Yes. You sent for me."

She put a hand to her head.

"Have your bath," Erik suggested. "The water's ready. You'll feel better afterwards."

Christine nodded mutely, allowing herself to be led to the steaming zinc hip bath. Towels and clothing were laid out and waiting for her.

"You'll be all right?"

She nodded again and he left her.

Erik leaned against the wall, heart pounding. It was so hard not to tell her everything, not to beg for her love, for her to come back to him. More than anything, he wanted her to remember on her own. He felt shaky and uncertain; he needed release. For that he turned to his oldest love, but no longer his dearest. Music.

Christine slipped her nightdress off and sank gratefully into the warm water with a sigh. She'd think about nothing for a bit, just relax and clear her mind. She reached for the sponge, lathering it and running it over the smooth contours of her body. It felt good to be clean.

Erik ran a hand over the smooth contours of his instruments, thinking about his selection. The violin. He'd always been fond of the violin. He'd played it for Christine in the past…

Christine ran a comb through the strands of her wet hair, carefully working through the tangles. It wasn't until she was almost finished that she heard it. Music: low, soft and sweet, so faint that at first she thought she was imagining it. The tune built and grew until it was impossible to ignore. She rose, dried herself, and began to dress.

Erik felt transported as he played, as he always did: music took him out of himself, away from cares and worries and into a place where there was only beauty. He poured his soul into the melody, and another soul responded to the call.

Christine moved slowly to the doorway of the cottage, as if in a dream, but she felt her mind clearing instead of clouding. Her maestro stood there, illuminated in the single shaft of sunlight pouring through the opening in the rock walls, playing the most haunting melody she'd ever heard. It resembled the music her father had played for her when she was a child, yet was subtly different: though in the style of Swedish folk tunes, this was an original composition.

It was terribly sad, and yet so lovely it made her want to weep, not with melancholy, but for the sheer beauty of the tune. The song would break the hearts of angels. Her maestro had played it for her once before. It was his music.

Christine swayed suddenly, as wave over wave of memory began to crash over her. She braced herself against the door, gasping, barely able to stand as images crowded her mind. Images of herself, of the deserted ruins of the Opera House, of Raoul and an argument in his carriage, of staying with the Girys, of breaking off her engagement, and, most vivid of all; memories of herself and someone else. Someone she loved. Her eyes filled with tears.

The playing had stopped. He was looking at her.

"…Erik?" she said.


	11. Long in the Telling

Ch. 11 – Long in the Telling

**A/N – The (former) chapter "Reunion" has been removed, rewritten, significantly added to, and split into parts. This is the first part. I hope you all like the changes. And no, these are not the last chapters in this fic.**

"…Come praise  
The wine-dark of the wood's intricacies,  
The nightingale that deafens daylight there,  
If daylight ever visit…"  
- William Butler Yeats, _Colonus' Praise_

"Erik?" Christine repeated.

At first he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The sound of his name on her lips was what he had waited for for so long; had heard a thousand times over in dreams and fantasies. When he finally heard it in reality, he stood transfixed for a moment.

Golden light poured down upon him from high in the rock cliff. Slowly, Erik lowered the violin from his shoulder and stood, staring. Christine, still fragile from her illness but strong enough to stand, leaned against the cottage door for support. Her hair, slightly damp from the steam in her bath, spilled over her shoulders in loose waves. She was as lovely as a vision.

_Please,_ he thought fleetingly, _don't let this be another daydream…_

Shaking off the spell, he crossed to her quickly, setting the violin down inside the front door. His eyes searched her face: he was filled with a hope, a desperate yearing he also feared, in case her memory had made only a partial recovery.

Christine stretched out a hand toward him, then timidly drew it away again, overwhelmed by the memories that had come flooding back. She hardly knew herself - there had been so much she had forgotten, and yet she felt as if she'd come home after a long absence. Tears spilled from her brown eyes. "I remember," she said, and stopped. He waited, holding his breath.

"I remember everything," she finished, half-afraid to find what his reaction would be. Afraid of herself.

"Everything?" he asked huskily.

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze, now that this had been spoken. "How could I have forgotten?" She felt ashamed, though she knew it was not her fault. But something so important… _I didn't mean to forget_, she thought. _I never would have, had the choice been mine…_

She saw the movement in his throat as he swallowed, fighting back tears himself. He reached for her gently, then suddenly drew her entire body to him in a fierce embrace. "Christine," he whispered against her hair. She closed her eyes.

For an instant, time hung suspended, The light filtering in from above, glinting off the water, the warm rock walls where the birds nested, the cozy little cottage hidden away from prying eyes…Christine felt that if she held her breath, the moment might last forever. _Don't let me be dreaming again, _she thought. _I need to feel you solidly against me. I need to know that you are real…_

She clung to him as fiercely as her returning strength allowed. Erik held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

At last, afraid that if he held her too tightly he might injure her, Erik released his grip slightly and looked down into Christine's upturned face.

"I should have thought of it before," he said, his voice tight; strained with emotion. "I should have known that it would be music that would bring you back to yourself." _And to me…_

Christine pulled a little away from him, looking deep into his eyes. One hand rested delicately on his brocade vest.

"Erik," she said, "There's something I want to ask you…"

"Anything," he said. At that moment, he felt that his entire being was open to her. Anything she wished that was in his power to grant, he'd do, and gladly.

"Are you able to tell me now why you had to leave Paris so suddenly, the last – " she blushed, and looked down again, toying with a button on his vest. "The last time I saw you?"

He smiled, a broader smile than she had yet seen from him. Not a smirk or a wry grin, but an expression that transformed his face.

"I can," he said, "and I will. But come and sit down. You shouldn't be tiring yourself out."

Keeping hold of her hand, he led her into the cottage's tiny parlor, made certain that she was comfortable on the divan, then sat beside her.

His knees were brushing hers; his hand was dry and warm and seemed to engulf her own small one. _This is Erik…_Christine thought to herself, still marveling at the return of her memories. _Erik is next to me. Erik is holding my hand…Erik, whom I missed for so long…so strange, so new, yet so very familiar…more familiar than any other person. _Her body was flooded with an intense awareness of his physical presence, though she'd been around him for days. She wanted to close her eyes and continue to just _feel,_ but she had asked something important, and he was answering.

Christine shook her head to school her straying thoughts, and listened.

Erik cleared his throat.. "Do you remember the red roses I used to leave for you?"

She smiled. "Of course."

"Did you ever wonder where I obtained them?"

Christine shook her head. Everything about him had seemed magical in those days – almost supernatural; the good and the bad. _He was still magical_, she thought, _but in a different way._

"The first time I heard you sing," he continued, "you reminded me of a red rose. Darkly beautiful. Something to be prized." He shifted, slightly embarrassed by this confession. "But I had no garden. No way to grow roses. I went looking for a florist, and I found one."

Christine looked a bit surprised. She knew he'd ventured outside the Opera in those days; he'd driven her to the cemetery. But he rarely spoke of such excursions.

"There was a small flower shop in the Rue Aubet, right off the Rue Scribe. Not far. Flower-sellers do a brisk business, with the Opera so close. The other shops were too public, or closed for business, but this little place was quiet. Once I went inside I discovered why.

"The owner and his daughter were Algerian. Not that that would have made a difference in most cases, but there are some…people…who treat natives of nations under French rule as personal property. A minor nobleman had made unwelcome advances to the daughter, and her father had chased them off with such vigor that the young man and his friends vowed never to go near the place again. Their feelings were evidently made known to their entire social circle, and business at the shop had fallen off sharply as a result."

Erik paused. Christine was unable to stop herself from asking. "Was she beautiful?"

He turned to her, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit, and softly put a hand against her cheek.

"No," he said, gently. "She was not. But she was kind, and no person should be treated as she was."

"Of course not," Christine stammered, blushing again. "Please go on."

"They asked no questions about the mask," he said, "For which I was grateful. I arranged always to have my roses from them. I would send them a note with my requirements, enclosing payment, and the flowers would be delivered to the entrance I'd requested at the time I'd asked, and I retrieved them. They were always there, and always fresh. Even in winter. An agreeable arrangement on both sides."

Erik paused again, releasing Christine's hand. He seemed distracted, staring at his own hands, now resting on his thighs, as if they were no longer a part of him.

"And so things continued," Erik said, "Until the night of the Opera House fire. And then…I no longer needed roses."

Christine wanted to reach for him again, but dared not. Such memories were not pleasant for either of them. She waited. When he eventually spoke again, his voice had a hoarse quality.

"I wandered for days, Christine," Erik said, slowly, still not looking at her. "I wanted to die. I could not eat. I rarely slept. At times, I was in complete darkness, wandering through the maze of cellars and tunnels. Sometimes I could see, which meant that an opening or window was nearby, and that it was daytime. I paid no attention; it was all one to me. I don't know how long I continued in that state, but I kept on until I had nearly worn the boots off my feet with walking, and then, I collapsed."

He twisted his hands together in his lap. This time Christine did reach for him. Erik took her hand in his again.

"I lay where I had fallen. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself out of this life." He cleared his throat. "Without knowing it, I'd come back near to the place where I had started. Though I know the undergrounds of Paris so well, I no longer knew nor cared where I was or whether anyone found me. I was only vaguely aware of being able to see daylight.

As it happened, I was near to the entrance where the flower-seller's daughter brought the roses. I heard someone calling, "Monsieur, monsieur." I made no reply, but she found me anyway. It was her, the girl – Nadira. She never knew my name, but she had heard stories after the fire, and had connected their anonymous rose-buyer with the descriptions that were circulating. I have a rather singular appearance, it seems."

He flashed her a brief, wry, look. Christine's heart twisted at the pain in his green eyes, but she knew he needed to get this out.

"You say _her_," Christine prompted, "But what of her father?"

"Ah," Erik said. "The crux of the matter."

Puzzled, Christine waited for an explanation.

"The month previously," Erik continued, "Her father had returned to Algeria the month previously, to assist an ailing relative. Since the greater part of my contact with them had been indirect, I did not know this. The father had had the misfortune to be on the streets during a sweep for political agitators. French rule has not been universally beloved."

Christine nodded.

"Algerian natives were being rounded up and questioned indiscriminately. Since Nadira's father had actually been to Paris, this raised further alarm bells. He'd been indefinitely detained for over a month when she found me, and she was convinced that the authorities were going to let her father rot in prison for the rest of his life. She was probably right."

"But the man is innocent?" Christine asked.

Erik looked momentarily startled, and Christine thought, _he thinks me naïve, but I can see the changes in his thinking. He stops to consider whether the end justifies the means – at least, when asked. _

"Go on," she prompted, softly.

Erik shrugged, still a bit bothered. "I assume so. In any case, he had treated me fairly, and his daughter – his daughter had just saved my life.

"When she found me, I was a wreck. I was delirious; scarcely human. She was not strong enough to move me, but she brought food and water, and nursed me back to health. She'd never seen me without the mask before, and I had hard time convincing her that my face was not injured." That wry grin again.

Christine squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture. She wanted desperately for him to hold her close again, but she also wanted to hear what he had to tell her. There would be time enough…and he was speaking again.

"When I had recovered sufficiently, she had a favor to ask of me."

"She wanted you to rescue her father," Christine guessed.

"Yes."


	12. The Tale Continues

**[A/N: *****taps microphone* ...Is this on? No? Well, here I go, anyway.**

**Who updates a fic after a silence of 3 ½ years? Apparently, I do. I never meant to abandon this, but life had other plans. I'm not at all certain of my ability to recapture the narrative, though the entire story has been outlined from the beginning and I've thought of it often, but I'd like to try. This is not about me, though: it's about Erik and Christine. I started taking them on a journey and I'd like to do my best to complete it. Anyone who wants to come along is more than welcome.]**

"The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,

The moonrise wakes the nightingale.

Come darkness, moonrise, everything

That is so silent, sweet, and pale:

Come, so ye wake the nightingale."

- Christina Rossetti

Erik continued his narrative where he'd left off, Christine's hand still clasped in his.

"Traveling to Algeria under my peculiar circumstances was less than an ideal situation. A hunted man, thinking to rescue a political prisoner? Madness, had I not planned very carefully.

"My journey was complicated by the fact that, at the time I had made the promise to rescue Nadira's father, I cared not whether I lived or died. I never expected you to return to me. I never expected-" he swallowed, momentarily overcome. Christine squeezed his hand, silently willing him onward, and he resumed.

"But when the time came to fulfill it – I wanted very much to live." Erik turned to look at her, green eyes full of an emotion he struggled to give voice to. He still feared not to tread lightly around the subject of her newly-recovered memories, as if afraid that one false step would cause them to vanish again.

Christine blushed and looked down at their joined hands, covering his with her free one, struggling also to put emotions deeply felt into words. Her heart felt as if it were awakening after a long slumber – everything was so new, yet so familiar. Who would have guessed that regaining one's own memories could prove so disorienting?

"Erik, you don't – you didn't - " she hesitated, collecting her thoughts, and began again. "You don't need to prove yourself worthy...of me, of anything, or of anyone."

He put one finger under her chin and gently turned her face towards his, not speaking until she faced him. She shivered at the gesture, recalling the past with a mixture of pleasure and pain. His hand was ungloved this time, and she was exquisitely aware of every place where his skin touched her own.

"I will never," he said, simply and seriously, "Be worthy of you. No matter where I go, no matter how long I live. But I can, and do, dare to love you. And I can wish to be a better man for your sake."

His voice wavered; she could hear him mastering himself. She tightened her grip on his hand, tears threatening to well up in her eyes with the same excess of emotion he was feeling, with an admixture of relief. Inexpressible relief that he loved her still. "Go on," she said softly.

He dropped his hand and his gaze, resuming. "I traveled mainly by night. I considered it a fortunate thing that I had spent years designing costumes and playing at disguising myself; that turned out to be useful. This," he gestured to the mask , "Was, of course, the most difficult part of any disguise. At times I masked my entire face; at other times I hid myself in the shadows of a traveling cloak with a very deep cowl. My appearance caused remarks and speculation, but as long as they were not the same remarks and speculation wherever I went, I felt myself to be safe."

He hated talking about it, Christine could tell. His face half-twisted into a grimace of self-disgust when he talked about the lengths he had to go to pass freely among other men, aboveground – the freedom that so many took for granted, as their birthright.

"Once or twice," he continued, "I was a peasant with long, lank hair covering my entire face. My fellow travelers figured me for an escaped convict at that point, I overheard. There were even times," and here he looked away, as if he could not bear to face her, "When I made up the other half of my face to match – this one – and pretended to be begging alms."

A muscle worked in his jaw. He sounded ashamed, and she could not imagine what it had taken for him to go out in public thus disfigured, taking into account the abuses he'd suffered in the past from his own blighted features.

"You were very brave," she said, gently.

He turned slowly, studying her, then quirked an almost-shy grin. "Do you know, Christine, that you continually amaze me?"

They were being quite formal in their speech, afraid of rushing swiftly towards one another as they longed to do, in the grip of feelings too powerful to be given rein to. There was the fear that to do so would shatter the fragile wonder that had just re-formed between them as if it were made of thin crystal.

_You hold all my dreams in your eyes...and in your hands, _Christine thought. She felt she could trust him, trust this, but her happiness was too sacred and too newly-regained to allow her to open herself to him completely just yet.

Therefore they danced with words – speaking politely, treating each other gently, both treasuring the joy blooming in their breasts until the time came when they could share it – but their eyes spoke the language of their hearts.

And Erik continued. "Compared to the difficulties of getting there, the task itself was relatively easily accomplished." Christine raised her eyebrows, and he smiled. "I didn't expect that either. Fortune smiled upon me.

"I had been prepared for any eventuality I could think of – to disguise myself as a _zouave_ or a _colon_, to obtain building plans and look for weaknesses in walls – but as it happened, there was a local insurrection a few nights after I arrived. I took advantage of the chaos to bribe a guard, pick a lock, and flee with Nadira's father. It sounds cowardly, but I incurred no – no damage to persons or property," he hastened to finish, choosing his words with care. He wanted to assure her that he had indeed changed, but he feared to bring up past events that gave her every reason to think ill of him.

"We escaped easily amidst the uproar. The first leg of the journey was by ship, the second..." he paused and grinned, looking upwards.

Christine was perplexed. She followed his gaze and saw nothing but the ceiling and a bell at the top of the wall. There were similar bells in every room; she'd considered them another one of his fancies or collections. "But what – how -"

Erik's grin became broader. "I shall show you how the second half of our journey was effected, myself. I think you'd enjoy it. But later, not now."

Christine opened her mouth to question again – this was one of Erik's many mysteries, but he was piquing her curiosity on purpose. He held up a hand, however.

"Forgive me for continuing, but you may ask me anything you wish once I finish the last bit. I assure you! Word of honor!

"Once we were back on French soil, Nadira and her father were quickly reunited. I booked passage for them to Spain, where it is to be hoped that they will be untroubled in future by importunate young aristocrats, political uprisings...and mysterious masked purchasers of roses."

He finished with a flourish, and sat back against the blue velvet of the divan, looking at her expectantly.

Christine's head was whirling. _How did you find me? How did we get here? How long was I ill?_ She hardly knew where to begin asking questions, so she provided an answer of her own.

"Erik, I – I didn't intend to go with Raoul," she faltered, wondering what he must think of her, but he put her mind at ease immediately.

"I know," he said. "The Girys told me." Christine closed her eyes in relief. "When I first found out where you were, I was...dismayed."

Christine bit her lip. She knew too well the forms his displeasure – and temper – were liable to take.

"They soon set me straight," Erik said. "No questions for me? I fear I've overwhelmed you with my tale – I should not have told you all at once like this." He sat up again, concern for her displacing all other emotions.

But she smiled, relieving him in turn. "I have many questions! I'm only considering which to ask first."

He cleared his throat. "In that case, may I ask one of you?" And when she nodded assent, he began, "Do you – that is – can you - " _Do you love me still?_ died on his lips, unasked, as the bell near the ceiling began to ring. Erik frowned. "That's very odd. And possibly not very good."

"What is it?" Christine felt more confused than ever. "What does it mean?" The only thing she was certain of was that here – by this man's side – was the place she most wanted to be in all the world.

"Someone's in my old cavern below the Opera."


End file.
